


A Close Shave

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Facial Shaving, Knifeplay, M/M, Swordplay, Tense, but sexy, jaskier: this better not awaken anything in me, light dom!geralt, shaving with a sword, swords at throats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26173042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Slowly, Geralt lifted the sword, one hand on the hilt and one near the tip, positioning it just below Jaskier’s cheekbone. In one gentle, languid movement he dragged the blade down Jaskier’s chin. All Jaskier could hear was the scrape of the blade and the heavy, deafening sound of his own heart.Jaskier's shaving supplies are stolen, and after nearly three weeks his itchy beard is driving him to distraction. Geralt offers to help - not with a razor, but with his sword. Sat between Geralt's legs with a silver blade to his throat, Jaskier discovers some new and exciting things about what, exactly, turns him on.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 77
Kudos: 520





	A Close Shave

Jaskier scratched at his chin impatiently. He’d tried to be good - tried to stop himself - but the stubble coating his chin was becoming near unbearable. 

They’d been on the roads for what felt like an age, and he’d had his bag stolen two weeks ago. While Geralt had reminded him umpteen times that he was lucky it was just clothing and trinkets he lost, he still felt a little resentful. They’d not really taken anything of worth - a couple of tunics, some old notebooks, a little bag of toiletries. Jaskier could accept the loss of his various soaps and oils, especially as the prospect of a real bath was growing less and less likely every day, but the real annoyance was that the thief had managed to make off with his shaving kit, too. It was only simple - a brush, a little bar of foaming soap and a silver-handled blade - but at the time of the theft he’d not used it in nearly four days and now - two weeks later - his beard was beginning to drive him mad. 

His face felt like it was on fire, like there were ants crawling under his skin. Geralt had teased him that first week, apparently amused by the hairs growing across his chin and jaw, and Jaskier had laughed along - it wasn’t every day he sported a beard, after all. 

But now he was finding it a lot less amusing. He’d not worn a beard for _years_ , and the constant itching was driving him to distraction. He tried to stop himself, knowing that the continual scratching would be wreaking havoc on his usually pampered skin, but he’d find himself rubbing at it unconsciously when walking along at Geralt’s side, when waiting for him to finish a monster off. He’d wake himself up with a stinging face and his nails digging into his skin. 

He sat on a fallen log at the fireside, his lute abandoned, furiously itching at his face. Geralt leant against a tree just a few feet away, carefully sharpening his silver sword. 

“Urgh…. _Fuck!”_

Geralt looked up. “Problem?” 

“It’s this… this _fucking_ beard, is the problem, Geralt.” 

“Oh?” 

“If you _hadn’t noticed_ , I can’t stop _fucking_ itching. It’s unbearable!” 

Geralt lowered the whetstone and raised a single eyebrow. “I thought you had fleas.” 

Jaskier spluttered. “You - I - _fleas_ , Geralt?!” 

The witcher shrugged. “Happens to the best of us when you’ve been on the road as long as we have. _Especially_ if you’re more used to…” he looked Jaskier up and down, as if appraising him, “... a more comfortable lifestyle.” 

“I’ll have you know I’m _just_ as suited to all this… all this galavanting about in the woods as you are, Geralt.” 

“Hmm,” he said, before continuing to run the whetstone up and down the blade in long, slow strokes. 

Jaskier huffed to himself, shook out his hands as if to dispel the urge to scratch, then grabbed at his lute, desperate for a way to keep his fingers busy. He strummed a few listless chords, letting his fingers play across the strings. Across the fire, Geralt hummed, and Jaskier peered at him. He hadn't looked up at the music, but there was the hint of a smile on his face. 

Jaskier let his fingers move of their own accord, plucking out an old, familiar melody, barely thinking about the song. Instead, he couldn't help but focus on the way Geralt's hand moved up and down the sword in deliberate strokes. He'd shod his armour for the night and with each pass of the whetstone Jaskier could see the muscles of his arm beneath the thin linen of his black tunic. Half bathed in shadow and half illuminated by the crackling fire, he looked half god-like. The illusion was only intensified when Geralt finally looked up, and his yellow eyes flashed. 

Jaskier's fingers fumbled on the strings with a discordant twang. His idea had worked - but only for a moment - and now he'd lost his rhythm, his face was burning, desperate to be scratched. 

“Urgh!” He tossed aside the instrument and sat on his hands, his face contorted in discomfort. 

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier jumped. Geralt, silent as ever, had made his way over to him and was looming above him, the sword still clasped in his hand. For a moment, Jaskier completely forgot about the itching, lost in the imposing figure glaring down at him. 

He swallowed. “Uh…” 

Geralt finally knelt down next to him, letting his blade rest across his knees. He was moving softly, Jaskier realised - as if he was concerned he might startle him. 

“I can help with the itching.” 

Jaskier blinked. “Right. Sure,” then realised what Geralt had just said. “What?” 

“The itching,” Geralt nodded towards his beard, and the hand that was already unconsciously niggling at the skin, “But…” 

“...but?” 

Geralt licked his lips, clearly looking for the right words. Jaskier watched, fascinated. 

“We can - I can shave you.” 

“But they stole my-” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt gave him a meaningful look, then nodded towards the sword. “I can get rid of the beard.” 

“With _that_?” Jaskier flinched back instinctively and his eyes darted to the shining blade still resting in Geralt’s lap. 

Geralt smiled - a subtle little half-grin, the corner of his lip quirking. “Scared?” 

Jaskier swallowed, his eyes jumping between the sword and Geralt’s teasing expression. “...no,” he said, finally, lifting his chin. 

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “Really?” 

“Well…” Jaskier nibbled at the inside of his lip, “I mean… It’s a fucking _sword_ , Geralt. You’ll forgive me if I’m a little hesitant to have it held to my… to my neck.” 

"In that case…" Geralt made to stand, and suddenly Jaskier found himself reaching out, grabbing his sleeve. Geralt's arm was warm beneath the linen. 

"I didn't say _no_ ," Jaskier said, quietly. 

Geralt grinned - a real grin. "Okay then," he said, kneeling. 

Jaskier barely had a moment to realise what was happening before Geralt's hand was on his jaw, tipping his head left and right. Jaskier felt his heart stutter and wondered if Geralt could feel his pulse where his fingers pressed into his neck. 

He dared to glance at him, and Geralt's gaze flickered from his chin to his eyes. His pupils were wide and dark. 

_Fuck_. Jaskier released his breath, slowly, and Geralt unhanded him. 

“So…” Geralt said, “First you’ll need to, ah…” 

He gestured at Jaskier’s high collar. _Right. Shit_. Jaskier shrugged out of his doublet, then quickly tugged free the chord of his tunic, pulling it open to reveal the length of his neck. Geralt had leant back, pulling a cloth from his pocket, and began to clean the residue of the whetstone from the sword. 

“Have you… done this before?” Asked Jaskier a little nervously, lowering himself from the fallen log and onto the ground. 

“All the time. In fact,” Geralt chuckled to himself as he swiped the cloth down the length of the sword, “it used to be a competition at Kaer Morhen. Who could get the closest shave.” 

“... and did you win?” 

Geralt stopped swiping and peered up at Jaskier with a sly smirk. “On occasion,” he said. 

When Geralt seemed satisfied that the sword was clean, he knelt in front of Jaskier, their knees pushed together. It was the closest they'd been in an age - save for nights spooned together in a shared bed or Geralt pulling Jaskier out of the way of some unspeakable monster. 

That realisation crossed Jaskier’s mind - the shock of closeness followed by the realisation that this closeness was not, in itself, unusual - but he barely had time to linger on it before Geralt had his jaw in his hand once more, his sword raised. 

“Ready?” Geralt murmured, head tilted to one side. 

Jaskier swallowed. “Yep,” he said, “Yes. Yeah.” 

“Hold still,” Geralt said, leaning forwards. 

Jaskier could feel Geralt’s breath on his cheek, and did as he was told. Slowly, Geralt lifted the sword, one hand on the hilt and one near the tip, positioning it just below Jaskier’s cheekbone. In one gentle, languid movement he dragged the blade down Jaskier’s chin. All he could hear was the _scrape_ of blade and the heavy, deafening sound of his own heart. 

Geralt leant back, the first stroke complete. 

“Jaskier,” he said, “breathe.” 

_Shit_. Jaskier hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath - it had been an instinctive response, partly due to the blade and partly due to Geralt’s sudden, overwhelming closeness. He huffed out, feeling his shoulders relax. 

“I won’t be held responsible if you swoon into the blade,” said Geralt. “This is a good sword. I don’t want your blood on it.” 

Jaskier blinked, then peered down. He realised what Geralt was holding. 

“Is that silver?” 

Geralt shrugged. “It’s the sharper blade.” 

“Does that make me a monster?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows. 

“Hmm.” Geralt wiped the stubble from the sword with the cloth, then raised it once more. 

Now prepared, Jaskier tilted his head to give Geralt greater purchase on his skin. He started again, slowly moving the sword down Jaskier’s face, pausing to wipe away the stubble. From the corner of his eye, Jaskier could see the glint of the sword, flashing in the orange firelight. He wondered if he should close his eyes: he’d only ever had a blade this close to his neck in combat, and the feeling was disconcerting. But if he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to see the look of intense concentration on Geralt’s face, would miss the way he was staring at him. 

Geralt reached up and tilted Jaskier’s head around so he could reach the other side, and Jaskier silently complied. Soon, both cheeks were smooth, as well as his chin, leaving only the hair above his top lip and on his neck. 

Geralt lowered the blade and leant back, and Jaskier was suddenly very aware of how far away he was. 

“I need you to…” Geralt gestured at his lips, and for one mad moment Jaskier thought he was telling him to kiss him. He was about to edge forwards, when Geralt spoke again. “Your upper lip…” 

Oh. Of course. Jaskier extended his lip over his upper teeth, making the skin taught, and Geralt used the very tip of the blade to gently remove the hair that tickled over Jaskier’s lip. His thumb brushed against Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier had to resist the urge to stick out his tongue and see how he tasted. He was sure Geralt didn’t think of this as an intimate gesture as once again his fingers brushed Jaskier’s lips - to Geralt, it was just a favour for a friend. He’d mentioned his training in the keep: perhaps, to him, this was almost _brotherly_. 

Finally - and horribly - he was done. Jaskier reached up and felt his face. Geralt really had done an impeccable job, considering the tools at hand. He sighed in relief. 

“Thank you, Geralt,” he breathed, “I-” 

“Not done yet.” 

“What?” 

Geralt reached out, and rubbed a hand against Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier mirrored the movement. Of course: they hadn’t shaved his neck, yet. And if he stopped Geralt now, he’d look ridiculous for the next few weeks. 

Geralt appeared to be figuring out the best angle to approach him, lining up his sword. Jaskier let himself be pawed at, tilting his head this way and that as Geralt considered him. 

Finally, Geralt slumped back with a sigh. 

“I can’t get a clean cut from this angle,” he said, “I’m used to doing this on myself, not on someone else.” 

“Right,” said Jaskier, absent-mindedly itching at his neck. “So… what do we do?” 

Geralt drummed his fingers on the blade. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think his friend was nervous. 

“There’s one thing.” 

“Oh?” 

Geralt’s fingers stopped drumming, abruptly. “You need to sit in my lap.” 

Jaskier was very glad the sword was resting across Geralt’s knees and not still at his throat. Sat in… with _Geralt?_

He blinked. 

“Or not,” said Geralt quickly. “We can work out something else.” 

_No. Absolutely no fucking way._ “...no,” said Jaskier, slowly, “no, I can… I can do that. Um…” he looked at Geralt, trying very hard not to stare at his lap. “How?” 

Geralt shuffled himself around till they sat side by side, leaning against the fallen log that Jaskier had been sitting on a few moments earlier. He spread his legs, bent at the knee, a space between them that was just Jaskier-sized. 

Jaskier could feel his face flushing, his ears burning. _Gods, help me_ , he thought, as Geralt gestured to the space - a clear invitation to sit. He couldn’t _not_ obey - every fibre of his body wanted to be sat there between Geralt’s legs: _needed_ to be sat there. Was it a bad idea? Almost certainly. Was he going to do it anyway? Of course. 

He made his way towards Geralt, hoping the witcher couldn’t spot his furiously blushing face or hear his rapid heartbeat, then sat - right between Geralt’s knees, as far away from touching him as he could. 

“You’ll need to be closer than that.” 

Geralt _whispered_ it. He _muttered_ it, like he’d said something obscene. And Jaskier did as he asked, shuffling backwards till his arse was nestled right against Geralt’s crotch. The pressure against him made his heart skip, and suddenly that was all he could think of, all his adrenaline and nervousness tightening in his core. 

He needed to distract himself. This was worse than the itching. He couldn’t possibly get a hard-on while nestled between Geralt’s legs with a sword held to his neck. 

The sword. Of course. As soon as Geralt began, all these unnecessary feelings would go, and he could focus on the cold blade on his neck to distract him from the warm body against his arse. 

“Ready?” Geralt’s voice was low and hoarse in his ear. _Fuck_. He needed him to hurry up and get on with it before Jaskier did something impulsive and disastrous. 

“Yes,” he said, quickly. 

Geralt made a brief noise of assent, before picking up the sword once more. From this angle, Jaskier was pinned to Geralt’s chest: Geralt behind him, the sword in front of him. He was trapped - although he couldn’t find the energy to care about that. 

“Lean back.” 

He did, pressing his back to Geralt’s torso, tilting his head backwards until it rested on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt’s long hair tickled at his face, and his scent - woodash and leather and sweat, always sweat - filled his nostrils. 

Jaskier was about to give in, to nestle into the soft swathe of skin between Geralt’s ear and his neck and breathe him in, consequences be damned, when the blade was suddenly against his skin. 

And - oh - that brought the whole fantasy quickly crashing down around him. Before, he’d been able to see Geralt’s slow machinations, his gentle movements. But this - the sword at this throat, held from behind - was reminiscent of the several times he’d been held just like this at the mercy of a bandit, a thief, even a jealous lover. He was gripped with fear - a new and different kind of fear to the one that had been coursing through his veins at the idea of being so close to Geralt. 

But… it was Geralt. It was Geralt’s hair brushing against his face, Geralt’s smell in his nose, Geralt’s arms on either side of him. Geralt with whom he’d shared food, fires, beds, _baths_. And the fear of the blade mingled with those hot, undeniable feelings into something new and firey and _dangerous_. He pressed himself harder against Geralt’s chest as he dragged the blade down his throat. 

In any other situation, he’d fear for his life. There was a sword to his throat and nowhere to run. But here, with Geralt, he knew he was safe. Geralt would never harm him - not purposefully, not accidentally. 

The sudden realisation of just how intensely he trusted the witcher would be surprising if he hadn’t already known it: he’d thrown himself into danger dozens of times, safe in the knowledge that Geralt would always be there to save him. But this was different, if only because this time the danger was Geralt himself. 

He could hear Geralt’s slow, rhythmic breathing against his face as he moved the blade from Jaskier’s chin, down his neck, and away. Any hope that the terror of having a sword to his throat would somehow distract him from his growing arousal was thoroughly dashed. If anything, it only heightened the experience. His trousers - useless things that they were - were already growing tighter. Jaskier knew that Geralt’s eyesight was effective even in this low light, and wondered if he could see the effect he was having on him. 

What made it worse was that he couldn’t move - in any usual situation, he'd be wriggling and squirming between Geralt’s arms, but now he was forced to be still, barely even breathing. As Geralt removed the blade from his skin, he grasped the opportunity. He shifted in Geralt’s lap, pressing himself even harder against his crotch. Without even thinking, he placed a sweaty hand on Geralt’s leg, squeezing it. 

Geralt let out the smallest gasp. Jaskier would have missed it, had it not been breathed directly into his ear. He froze, the sword held stiffly in two hands, away from Jaskier. 

They sat like that for a moment - Jaskier unwilling to let go of Geralt’s leg, all his senses focused on the point where their bodies met. Was Geralt suffering from the same affliction as Jaskier, or was he merely imagining it? 

“I’m nearly done,” rasped Geralt. “Shall I…” 

“Yes,” it came out as a whisper - quieter and more needy than Jaskier had intended. “...please.” 

Geralt reached up, holding the sword in one hand, turning Jaskier’s head so he could better reach the other side of his neck, and then the sword was back. Geralt started shaving again, somehow slower than before, the hair falling away beneath the edge of the blade. 

There was a warm breath on Jaskier’s jaw. “Swordplay, Jaskier?” Geralt murmured, “really?” 

Jaskier wanted to retort - to deny - but the sword was still at his throat and denial would be useless now, with his cock so obviously straining against his breeches. He stayed silent, not trusting himself to talk and accidentally cut his own throat. 

“I’m surprised,” Geralt continued, “although… not _that_ surprised.” 

He moved the blade away to wipe it down. 

“Not usually,” said Jaskier, watching the way Geralt’s hands moved the cloth up and down the sword, “never, in fact. Just…” 

“Just now?” 

Jaskier didn’t have time to confirm before the sword was back at his throat and his mouth snapped shut. 

“Or…” Geralt’s voice was low, “just me?” 

_Fuck_. _Oh, fuck._

Jaskier made a noise in the back of his throat, and Geralt hummed, sending vibrations through Jaskier’s back, then maneuvered himself, pulling Jaskier closer. Jaskier’s suspicions that Geralt was having the same reaction to their situation as he was were quickly and thoroughly confirmed. He made the noise again, unable to stop himself, hyper-aware of Geralt’s hardening prick pressed against him. 

There couldn’t be much hair left to remove, and the final strokes were done so slowly that Jaskier was sure Geralt was doing it on purpose, dragging it out, drawing Jaskier closer to an edge he didn’t even know existed. Finally, he drew the blade away. 

Too tense to move, Jaskier didn’t react - just leant against Geralt’s chest, breathing slowly. Geralt placed the sword down beside them, then murmured in his ear. 

“There.” 

Jaskier swallowed. He sat up, reluctant to move away from Geralt’s body, then in a single, swift movement twisted around so he could face him, swinging his legs around so he was straddling him. Geralt’s pupils were even larger than before - his eyes dark and black and wanting. He reached up to stroke the newly bare skin of Jaskier’s neck, his thumb resting in the dip between his collar bones. 

"We're done," Geralt muttered, swiping his thumb back and forth. 

Jaskier reached for him, placing one hand on his jaw, the other on the back of his head. He edged closer, pressing their bodies together, all his nerves lighting up and converging on the place where he could feel Geralt’s erection pressed against his own. 

"No," he said, pulling him close until their lips were brushing together. "We're not." 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Ah, Jaskier, discovering new and wonderful things every day. Come and chat to me on Tumblr at [a-kind-of-merry-war](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/)! <3


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